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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376994">all the meadows wide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching'>witching</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Banter, Comfort, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Poetry, Post-Canon, Reading Aloud, Sleeptalking, Tenderness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:21:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Martin is reclined in the armchair with his head lolling onto one shoulder, a book lying open in his lap, Qasmuna curled up on his chest. Jon pauses in the doorway to watch the slow rise and fall of his breathing, to take in the peaceful expression on his sleeping face. It is almost too much to bear – Jon feels a tightness in his chest, a warmth in his gut that threatens to overwhelm him.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all the meadows wide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this fic is for sel (@genderjester), and inspired by <a href="https://sel-jpg.tumblr.com/post/636981090930868224/tender-jmart-hours">this art</a> of theirs that made me feel several emotions. hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> it’s all i have to bring today – </em> <em><br/></em> <em> this, and my heart beside – </em> <em><br/></em> <em> this, and my heart, and all the fields – </em> <em><br/></em> <em> and all the meadows wide – </em> <em><br/></em> <em> be sure you count – should i forget </em> <em><br/></em> <em> some one the sum could tell – </em> <em><br/></em> <em> this, and my heart, and all the bees </em> <em><br/></em> <em> which in the clover dwell. </em></p><p>– emily dickinson</p><hr/><p>The afternoon sun is shining when Jon comes home from the shops with one bag in each hand, unable to carry more than that without risking crushing the bread between the apples and the almond milk. He has not yet received a reply to the text he sent from the checkout lane informing Martin that he would be home soon. Jon is trying not to get upset about that – not that he would blame Martin, of course, it’s only that he gets a bit of separation anxiety, and radio silence makes his mind want to go wild with ideas of what could have happened to Martin in his absence. </p><p>They have worked through that, though, and Jon knows how to keep his thoughts in check long enough to get home and bring the groceries inside. He calls out Martin’s name quietly as he walks in the house, setting his bags down on the kitchen floor and leaving them there in favor of finding his husband. The thin plastic of the bread bag will be no match for cat teeth, should Qasmuna decide to take advantage of it going unguarded, but that is rather low on Jon’s list of priorities at the moment. Let her eat the bread. Let the ice cream melt.</p><p>Jon is aware, intellectually, that there is a very low chance that anything is wrong at all, but still he steps lightly in case stealth is necessary. “Martin?” he calls again, softly, tamping down the urgency in his voice. There isn’t enough time for him to even begin to get properly worried about the lack of response before he turns the corner into the living room and all the tension leaves his body instantly at the sight that meets his eyes.</p><p>Martin is reclined in the armchair with his head lolling onto one shoulder, a book lying open in his lap, Qasmuna curled up on his chest. Jon pauses in the doorway to watch the slow rise and fall of his breathing, to take in the peaceful expression on his sleeping face. It is almost too much to bear – Jon feels a tightness in his chest, a warmth in his gut that threatens to overwhelm him. </p><p>He allows a wide open grin to spread on his face, a thousand emotions flooding him at once, predominantly relief and affection and embarrassment for getting himself all worked up over nothing. He takes a few steps toward Martin’s chair, until he gets close enough to reach out and trail a fingertip along the curve of Martin’s shoulder.</p><p>“My love,” Jon whispers, the smile evident in his voice even to his own ears. He opens his mouth to repeat himself a little louder, but then he sees Martin’s lips move infinitesimally, and he stops a moment to listen. All that he can hear is the incoherent mumbling that accompanies the movement, no words to be discerned. </p><p>“What was that?” he asks, in a tone similar to the one he uses to converse with the cat. Martin is still fully asleep, but he has a history of talking in his sleep, and Jon loves to play along, to see what Martin will say, and tell him all about it when he wakes up. </p><p>This time, it happens to be, “Don’t forget to paint the garden.”</p><p>“Oh?” Jon asks, tinting his tone with surprised amusement. What color?”</p><p>“Vermilion for the carrots,” Martin tells him, all matter of fact even as he sounds dazed and muffled with sleep. “Puce for the tulips. And the dirt – the soil has to be chartreuse all the way down.”</p><p>Jon laughs under his breath, shakes his head, and places a hand on Martin’s shoulder, firmer now than before. “Sure thing, love.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Martin mutters quietly, then shifts slightly and drops his head on his other shoulder. His breathing goes long and even, a sign that he is done talking for now, and Jon smiles at him again.</p><p>It is at that moment that Qasmuna seems to realize that Jon is there, turns her face toward him with a bright little chirp and starts kneading Martin’s chest excitedly. Jon puts out a hand to allow her to butt her head against it, which she prefers to actually being pet, and her loud purring combined with her claws in his chest is finally enough to finally stir Martin from his sleep. He shakes his head and blinks himself awake, his eyes sliding around the room blearily before settling on Jon’s face, brightening instantly with recognition and awareness. </p><p>“Hi,” Martin mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. </p><p>“Good morning,” Jon replies, slightly amused. </p><p>“Time’s it?” Martin slurs as he sits up straighter in his chair. The cat, annoyed at being jostled, jumps down to the floor and wanders out of the room with as much aloofness as she can muster.</p><p>Jon checks his watch. “It’s half past one,” he answers before adding, “I just got back a few minutes ago.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Martin mumbles, stretching out his limbs, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that, I just sat down to read and I guess I was more tired than I thought.”</p><p>Jon stands there and nods along, his gaze trained intently on the sliver of skin that shows when Martin’s sweater rides up his stomach a bit. He only tears his eyes away when Martin stands up and pulls the hem down so there is no longer any skin to look at, and even then, Jon simply shifts his attention up to Martin’s face instead. Almost without thinking, he takes a step forward to wrap his arms around Martin’s waist, craning his neck up and puckering his lips invitingly.</p><p>Enveloping Jon in an embrace, Martin obliges his husband with a warm kiss, first on his lips and then moving to plant one on each cheek, one on each eyelid, and finally pressing a firm kiss to the center of Jon’s forehead. Jon leans into the touch, humming contentedly, and rubs a hand up and down Martin’s back. </p><p>They pull apart after a few moments and Jon continues smiling up at Martin, still simply overcome with joy at the fact that this man is his. Biting his lower lip, Jon tilts his head in the direction of the armchair, quirks his eyebrow. </p><p>“What were you reading?” he asks.</p><p>“Dickinson,” Martin answers, after taking a moment to process the question. “Collected poems and letters.”</p><p>“Anything good?” Jon presses, because he knows Martin will want to talk about it, and he wants to hear about it, as long as it comes from Martin’s mouth.</p><p><em> “I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us!” </em> Martin recites easily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “One of my favorites.”</p><p>“Good enough to put you to sleep,” Jon teases, poking him in the ribs. “Will you help me bring in the rest of the shopping?”</p><p>Martin jumps to defend Dickinson, but follows Jon out to the car nonetheless, carrying the bulk of the groceries himself. His excitement about the poetry and his eagerness to prove his point energizes him and he ends up walking several strides in front of Jon, turning around every few seconds to be sure Jon is still listening. He keeps ranting about Emily Dickinson as they unload the groceries, and Jon keeps smiling and nodding along, not in an appeasing or a placating way, but rather enthralled by Martin’s passion and mesmerized by his happiness.</p><p>Jon knows Martin’s opinions on Dickinson, and Keats and Wilde and Shelley and all the Brontës, but he never gets tired of hearing Martin go on about them, seeing the way his face lights up and his whole body animates with his passionate rambling. He listens intently and catalogues any new information that he catches, filing it away for a rainy day, because he knows it always delights Martin to know that Jon remembers the things he says. Jon almost has to remember what Martin says – he can’t very well forget anything said to him by the love of his life and delivered with that much joy.</p><p>When their task is finished, they make their way back to the living room, still caught up in lively conversation. Martin reaches down to pick his book up off the chair, prepared to set it down on the table, but Jon looks at him and cocks his head at an angle, stopping him in his tracks.</p><p>“Will you read it to me?” Jon asks softly, his eyebrows drawing up and together. “I know I don’t usually – I like to hear it in your voice.”</p><p>“Of course,” Martin answers with a little smile, his cheeks heating up. He turns his face away to hide it, but Jon catches the dark flush and smiles to himself.</p><p>Martin settles back in his seat, and Jon moves to perch on the arm of the chair, leaning bodily into Martin’s side and resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. They only get a few minutes of sitting comfortably like this before Qasmuna pops up again, hops into Martin’s lap and stakes her claim on the territory by kneading his thighs aggressively. Martin grumbles slightly, but only reaches out a hand to pet her, which seems to appease her enough to stop her from actively trying to injure him. </p><p>It does leave Jon rather wanting for attention, though, with Martin occupied by reading and coddling the cat. After a while, he shifts to wrap his arms around Martin’s neck, not quite comfortably, but it proves to be worth it when Martin turns his head to press a kiss to Jon’s nose. Jon leans into it, puckering his own lips to kiss Martin’s chin as Martin takes his hand from the cat and settles it on Jon’s waist instead. Qasmuna is not too happy with this development, of course, but she just butts her head against Martin’s chest and goes right back to purring contentedly.</p><p><em> “When I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home,” </em> Martin reads, his voice soft and sweet, a soothing, lyrical lilt.</p><p>Jon has often told him that he could read aloud as a profession, and he leans in close to Martin’s ear now to reiterate the point. “My love, if you want to cook dinner together tonight, you’re going to have to pick a good spot to stop reading.” He watches Martin open his mouth to protest that it could just as easily be <em> his </em>job to make that decision, and he cuts Martin off before he can begin. “If you leave it up to me, I’ll listen to you until the end of the book, or until your voice gives out, whichever comes first.”</p><p>“Right,” Martin replies with a short laugh, a little roll of his eyes. “We can stop here. We’ve got to marinate the meat and all that, so we should get started sooner rather than later.”</p><p>“Okay,” says Jon, leaning in to kiss Martin quickly before hopping down from his perch on the chair arm. "We can read more later, if you'd like. I bought a new wine to go with dinner, and it feels like the kind of thing you do when you're drinking wine. By the way, we've got to find time to paint the garden."</p><p>Furrowing his brow, Martin turns to face Jon as soon as he sets his book down. "We've got to do what?"</p><p>Jon laughs, stretches out a hand to pull Martin to his feet. Martin doesn't need the help, but Jon can't resist a chance to touch him in any way he can. "Don't ask me, it was your unconscious brain that came up with the idea." Martin nods his understanding, and Jon continues, “Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I think I could use a shower while the marinade is setting.”</p><p>“Jonathan Sims,” Martin says with a smile, following Jon to the kitchen, “if I didn’t know any better, I might think you were just trying to get me naked.”</p><p>“Just trying to get you clean,” Jon teases gently, miming plugging his nose as Martin growls playfully and crowds him back against the counter. “Honestly, it’s rather altruistic of me, inviting you into my shower time. You should be grateful.”</p><p>Martin snorts quietly and leans down to kiss Jon, slow and warm and languid, his hands moving to Jon’s hips. “I’m very grateful,” he murmurs against Jon’s lips. “Thank you so much for graciously allowing me to wash your hair for you, I don’t know what I would do without it.”</p><p>“I’d wash your hair, too, if you’d let me,” Jon protests.</p><p>“I let you wash the rest of me,” Martin points out.</p><p>“Precisely,” says Jon, nodding decisively as if some point of his has been proven. “So we’re fairly even, I’d say, and we can get down to making dinner instead of continuing to debate the issue.”</p><p>“We’re even?” Martin asks incredulously, his eyebrows raised. “A minute ago, you were telling me I should be grateful, and now we’re even? Looks like I’m gaining ground.”</p><p>Jon shoves playfully at Martin’s shoulder, slipping past him to get to the refrigerator. “You are not,” he states definitively, then turns to hand the steak to Martin. “Will you cut this into strips while I mix up the marinade? And stop remembering what I said a minute ago, that’s not fair.”</p><p>Martin takes the package from him, turns toward the counter to grab a knife as he responds. “I wouldn’t have to remember it if <em> you </em>remembered it,” he points out with a wicked grin. “Don’t contradict yourself, and it won’t be an issue.”</p><p>Sliding a hand between Martin’s stomach and the countertop, Jon grabs a whisk and gets to his own job, but not before sticking his tongue out petulantly at his husband. “I do not contradict myself,” he argues, “I –”</p><p>“I am small, I contain one singularity,” Martin interrupts, his tone a mockery of Jon’s gruff voice. </p><p>“No, I simply – changed my mind,” Jon insists. “I felt bad for you, so I changed my tune so you wouldn’t be at such a disadvantage.”</p><p>“Sure, sweetheart,” Martin says, rolling his eyes loudly. “Whatever you say.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Jon replies with a decisive nod. “That’s the way it should be.”</p><p>Martin snorts softly, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, babe, you call all the shots here, and you’re never wrong.”</p><p>“Can I get that in writing?”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“Damn,” Jon mutters, shaking his head. He looks up when Martin goes just a bit too long without responding, only to find him staring with wide eyes and a gentle smile on his face. “What?”</p><p>Martin shakes himself out of his trance, his smile growing wider and brighter. “Nothing,” he says, “just – I love you.”</p><p>“Oh.” Jon blinks once, twice, and steps into Martin's space to stretch up and kiss him. He takes his time with it, nothing too deep or dirty, but warm and firm and lingering, and wraps his arms around Martin's middle before finally replying, “I love you, too.”</p>
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